


duscae, in requiem

by dreamtowns



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe – Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Healing, Healthy Coping Mechanisms, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Torture, Implied/Referenced Eating Disorders, Implied/Referenced Emotional Abuse, Medical Inaccuracies, Past Kidnapping, Politics, Recovery, Social Media, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2020-04-08 01:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19097278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamtowns/pseuds/dreamtowns
Summary: If anyone were to ask, Prompto Argentum did not go on a vacation in hopes of finding the missing prince. Of course, that's exactly what happens.





	1. duscae

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Final Fantasy XV. All rights reserved to its developers: Square Enix. All that is mine is the plot of this story in particular and any original characters introduced. No copyright infringement intended. No money is being made from this work. This is purely for entertainment purposes.
> 
> I noticed that most of the kidnapping/recovery fics revolved around prompto (don’t get me wrong, tho, i love them), and I wanted to explore how everything would go if it was noctis who had to go through this. 
> 
> also let’s just pretend that the tension between Niflheim and Lucis aren’t as bad, and that while there is a Wall, it’s relatively (for the most part) easy to travel back and forth from Insomnia. Also, the outer parts of Lucis (i.e., Duscae etc.) are much more developed with towns and the like instead of just the odd outpost here and there. each “outpost” has a town attached to it, basically. 
> 
> ALSO prompto ain’t an MT either. i don’t think he is one in canon mainly because he was rescued so young, but that’s just my theory. regardless, he was rescued during the initial stages of the MT program wherein the scientists started prepping his body for the scourge, but they had only just began when he disappeared. So. he doesn’t have the barcode . . . from Besithia at least ;)

_Something ice-cold crashes over him, and he wakes in shuddering, gasping breaths. They wrack his chest in a burning flare of pain; like someone has carved a painting out of his ribcage and expected him to keep breathing throughout it. The floor—the ground—is wet, damp. Soil. He’s outside. How did he get outside? He doesn’t know._

_He has to keep moving. He has to breathe. He has to—he must—safety. He needs safety. He pulls himself up on trembling legs. His knee crumbles beneath him, and he hits the ground with a soft thump. He makes no noise. No, that would give him away. He needs to find someplace safe. Someplace to rest. He can’t die here._

_He has to_

_He gets back up. Takes care to ease off his bad knee, and limps in a random direction. He doesn’t know where he is. Thick forest surrounds him and . . . he thinks he’s in Duscae. Duscae? How did he get to Duscae? He doesn’t remember. It too painful to think, to breathe._

_His teeth chatter as he breathes. He thinks it’s the beginning of winter. He doesn’t know what year it is. He doesn’t even know how old he is. Sticks and small stones tear the soles of his feet, but he keeps moving. Keeps walking (if one could call what he’s doing . . . walking). He can’t stop. He can’t rest. He has to_

_The sun is setting, slowly. Daemons will roam soon. He will die tonight if he doesn’t find shelter—a town or an outpost or a haven. He’s only read of those places in his schoolbooks, learned about them from some of his tutors, but his lessons were only just really beginning when he was_

_A glow grasps his attention._

_Soft blue to the left of him, and he changes course. That’s a haven. He’ll be safe there until the morning—and then_

_He collapses against the stone, wet by the thunderstorms that mark Duscae as, well, Duscae. He’s exhausted, but he crawls onto the haven completely. The runes of the haven hum with warmth. He curls up into a ball, and tries to breathe, tries not to make noise at the indescribable_ hurt. _He falls into an uneasy unconscious, but he jolts out of it at most of the noises._

_He isn’t safe here. He has to_

_He breathes, but it’s a wet breath. He’s not supposed to sound like that, breathing. But he has no potions. There are no doctors. He has to last until morning. A cold breeze drifts over him, and he shivers. His clothes are threadbare and stained. He doesn’t like to think about what they’re stained with._

_He has to_

_“Please,” he rasps out. He doesn’t know who he’s talking to. There is no one there. He’s alone, and he’s going to die alone. “Please.”_

_Gentle fingers brush against his forehead, and he flinches violently. His injuries protest, and a whine escapes his mouth. “It is alright, o King of Kings,” a voice—light and warm despite their cool fingers—tells him. “You will survive the night. That is all I can give you.”_

_He has to_

 

*

 

In all honesty, Prompto did not go to Duscae in search of the prince. 

That was a job for the Kingsglaive and the Crownsguard. That was a job for trained professionals who knew what they were doing—not a fourteen-year-old teenager who still slept with his chocobo plushie at night to ease his loneliness.

And yet.

That’s exactly what ends up happening.

The story beings with a contest. Technically, it starts with a fieldtrip in the fifth grade, but for clarity’s sake—a contest. Developed by the Citadel’s PR Department in search of young, budding photographers to be the next photographer for the royal family.

He enters the contest, not expecting to win, but hoping to at least get the top five. Or ten. To be honest, he’s not picky. Winner will have their collection placed in an art gala and receive a stipend. A scholarship to any photography program of their choice, and a guaranteed internship (and later on, employment) at the PR Department. The top four will get a scholarship.

Prompto wins.

When his winter break rolls around, he decides to take a leaf out of his parents’ book and take a vacation. To Duscae.

Prompto’s a city boy. He’ll admit that. Hell, he owns that identity. But there’s something about the outside of Insomnia that’s calling him. A near indescribable urge is hooked around his center of gravity, jerking him in the direction fate wants him to be in. That place, apparently, is Duscae.

It’s an amazing experience at first; the wildlife and fauna of Lucis he captures in all its’ beauty and essence. But his main goal is the Disc of Cauthess, and so he sets out in the early morning with his camera and a bag—filled with all the essentials Prompto may need, like his first aid kit, a shit ton of water bottles, and two emergency phones in case his cell phone decides to die on him—and sets off after he asks a local for directions.

He would’ve used a chocobo, but apparently, there was a problem with something named “Deadeye”, and they were all too spooked for travel. Nonetheless, he’s used to walking long distances, so it doesn’t bother him. He does, however, stock up on potions and the like after a quick trip to the market at the outpost. Just in case.

Prompto does not find the Disc of Cauthess.

A sudden, sharp bark grasps his attention as he tries to make sense of the forest around him. Prompto turns and blinks at the small dog by his heels. She whines, impatient, and barks twice.

“. . .Tiny?”

Tiny barks, again, and then takes off in some odd direction. Prompto moves before he realizes it, and follows her in a twisting path until they come upon a haven—and he almost screams at what he sees.

Astrals, leave it to Prompto to go on vacation, and find a bruised and bloody teen slumped over on a haven.

Tiny hops onto the haven, whines deep in her throat, and circles the place. It’s clear Tiny wants him to do _something_.

He makes a half-choked, strangled noise in the back of his throat, and scrambles atop the stone. It’s slightly damp, and cold, but the runes placed on and around it hums with warmth and safety. It’s a small comfort—havens make it impossible to harm others, after all. To even attempt to do so would be to reject previous Oracle of Light’s blessings, and the defensive set of runes would then kick in and, well, eject the offender.

He can’t make out the features of the other teen, mostly due to all the dirt, dried blood, and bruises, but that’s not that important right now. Prompto opens his bag and takes out his first aid kit— _thank you impulsive past self for taking first aid & how-to-survive-in-the-wild courses for three years_, he tells himself—and then takes out the potions, and some water, because gods only knew when the last time the kid drank something.

Before Prompto could even move, however, the boys’ eyes flutter open, and Prompto’s momentarily frozen at the blue gaze pining him in place.

“Prince Noctis . . .?”

The boy—the _Prince_ , holy _shiva_ —jolts backward, flinching at the sight of Prompto, and then flinches again, hand involuntarily curling around their side. As Prompto raises his hands in the universal sign of peace, Noctis eyes him warily, _but_ , Prompto notes victoriously _, not hostile_.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Prompto says in the most soothing voice he could have while being absolutely terrified and confused. He thinks he’s doing a pretty good job, because Noctis calms slightly. “Do you remember me? We—we went to school together? We, um, we were in the same c—.”

_“Prompto_ ,” Noctis rasps out.

Prompto almost flinches at how rough Noctis’s voice sounds, but he doesn’t. He exhales, gathering his strength, and nods. He keeps a bright smile on his face. “Yes, that’s me,” he says. “Prompto Argentum . . . um, y-your Highness, are you—?”

“Noctis,” the prince says.

“You . . . you want me to, to call you your name?”

Noctis nods.

“I just want to heal your injuries,” Prompto says, making sure his voice is clear and steady. Despite his internal freak out, he couldn’t afford to break down. No, this was too important. _Noctis_ was too important for him to flip his shit. “I have a couple of potions—only two, though—and an Antidote. Do you need the antidote?”

Noctis blinks, slowly, and then, shakes his head.

“Okay—would you like for me to give you a potion?”

The nod is much slower, more hesitant, but Prompto doesn’t waste time handing the potion over. With a trembling grip, Noctis breaks the potion over him and breathes a sigh of relief. Some of his injuries heal quickly—like the bruises, and the smaller cuts, but even Prompto, to his untrained eye, can tell it’s going to take a couple of hi-potions to get through at least half the damage Noctis has amassed. And that’s not even touching the injuries too old for a potion to heal.

“Okay, sweetie,”—the nickname just, well, it just slips out, but there are more important things to take care of than think about calling the crown prince of his country ‘sweetie’— “I’m certified in First Aid, so can I look at your side?”

Noctis stares at him and says nothing. Prompto doesn’t let him bother him—he might not be a professional in the health care business, and he might not ever understand what Noctis has gone through for four years in captivity, but he knows it’s not good, and he knows the teen before him is clearly traumatized.

But then, Tiny licks the side of Noctis’s face, gently, and huffs a little. Noctis takes that as a good sign, thankfully, and nods.

Prompto moves closer with his first aid kit, and, as careful as he’s ever been in his entire life, he lifts Noctis’s shirt up to purview the damage. He grimaces at the gnarled mess that is Noctis’s abdominal side; it’s a mix of black, red, and purple colors. Gods, he prays it isn’t infected.

Prompto exhales. “Okay, sweetie, these are going to need to be cleaned and—and stitched . . . I know how to do those things, but are you comfortable with that?”

Noctis stares at him again, and Prompto meets his gaze.

A minute, or perhaps an hour, passes when Noctis agrees silently, and Prompto gets to work. The world is quiet as Prompto, as gently as he can with needles, cleans the deep cuts on Noctis’s side and stitches them. He isn’t a professional, and they’ll mostly scar, but at least Noctis won’t bleed out during the night. The sun starts lowering in the sky by the time he’s done tending to most of Noctis’s injuries, and he looks around the forest, worrying his bottom lip.

“I’m . . . we need to start a fire,” he murmurs, and Tiny perks up.

She barks, once, before leaping off the haven and disappearing into the foliage. Prompto blinks at her fading tail, and then turns his attention back to Noctis.

“I have water,” he says quietly, “and a granola bar if you think your stomach can handle that.”

Prompto has no idea when the last time it was that Noctis had an actual meal, and, judging by the way his already small clothes are hanging off his frame, by the way Prompto can count majority of his ribs, he can tell it’s been a while. Noctis takes small sips of one of Prompto’s water bottles and manages half of the granola bar. Prompto finishes the rest, and Tiny returns.

There’s a handful of dry wood in her mouth as she crawls back onto the haven, and plops them down in the small stone pit in the middle of the place

Prompto grins. “Good girl.”

Tiny licks him for the praise, and then settles back against Noctis’s side; ever so cognizant of his injuries. Noctis pets her slowly, but his eyes stay trained on Prompto as he builds a fire. Temperatures in Northern Duscae are known to get almost alarmingly low during the winter, and he knows that if they have a chance of surviving right now, a fire was what they needed.

And then, like a lightbulb flickering on, Prompto remembers his emergency phones. His actual phone had no service here (thank you, phone providers, you’re a great help, really), and it’d conked out when he passed Leide, but he reached into his bag in the hopes that one of them would work.

As he reaches for it, he also pulls out his small sleeping bag. Listen, Prompto left Insomnia _prepared_. He wasn’t sure he needed what he’d packed when he made a checklist of the things he needed, but he had packed it regardless. Boy, was he glad he always listens to his instincts and urges.

Prompto unfolds the sleeping bag and sets it beside Noctis. “That’s yours, sweetie,” he says, and Noctis gives him a look that’s obviously asking where he’s going to sleep. To that, Prompto smiles. He keeps it bright and cheerful despite their situation. “It’s okay . . . I’m used to sleeping on the floor.”

Tiny’s lips curl a little, and Noctis blinks twice, clearly concerned, but Prompto waves it off. He goes back to the campfire, coaxing it slowly for more growth, and then flips open one of his emergency phones. The first one has no service, unfortunately, so he checks the second one. There are two bars, but Prompto’s going to take his chances.

“Is there a number that you remember?” Prompto asks Noctis. “Like . . . your father or, or, anyone uh . . . in the Citadel?”

Prompto would call Glaive Ulric if he could but, well, he didn’t exactly have the mans’ number memorized.

Here are the facts: Before he left for Duscae, Prompto had to give his contact info to the Crownsguard and Kingsglaive (well . . . the representative they sent to his house) as he was a minor traveling by himself. It was a way to see who was leaving Insomnia without placing too many restrictions. There wasn’t really a fear of other nations harming citizens (read: Niflheim), but as Prompto’s parents were also, well, almost always out of the picture, it was a safety measure.

He’d been “assigned” a Glaive that he’d have to check in with once a day, just to make sure everything was alright.

“If you don’t respond within twenty-four hours of your last contact,” he had been warned by a Crownsguard named Monica Elshett, “we will assume the worst and dispatch a group to retrieve you. Therefore, it is imperative that you remember to contact Glaive Ulric. Understood?”

Prompto understood.

And the Glaive—Nyx Ulric—was pretty cool, too.

Nonetheless, his phone was a goner, and therefore he didn’t have access to the Glaive’s number. Which, if Noctis didn’t remember anyone’s number (or it _changed_ ), they were going to have to wait until the morning to trek it and somehow find an outpost or a town so Prompto could charge his phone.

He offers the phone to Noctis, who took it. The other boy stares at the device in his hands for a moment, looking both bewildered and utterly lost at the turn of events, and a part of Prompto remembers that Noctis had been gone by the time Lucis’s technology skyrocketed in advancements, before he types in a number and presses call.

They watched it ring in tense silence.  

_Please pick up,_ Prompto pleads quietly. _Please, please, p—_

The Astrals answered him, because after four rings, there’s a gruff and slightly dangerous, “Who is this and how did you get this number?”

Prompto deflates. The adrenaline has escaped him, finally, and he’s starting to feel his age—Sweet Bahamut, he literally just turned fourteen, he has no idea how to do this. How does he even _phrase_ this question? _Hi, uh, remember the kid who won that PR contest? Yeah, it’s me, and uh, I found the Prince?_

Ha.

Prompto would be laughed out of Insomnia.

“I repeat, who is—?”

“Cor?” Noctis says. His voice sounds even rougher, much more vulnerable, than when he spoke Prompto’s name earlier. Tiny seems to curl into his side tighter, and Prompto reaches over and pats his ankle for support. “. . .Cor?”

The other end is filled with stark silence.

And then, when Prompto thinks they’re about to hang up: “. . . _Your Highness? Noctis?”_

Relief, and hope, and other emotions that make a knot the size of Titan curl in Prompto’s throat flashes over Noctis’s face. _“Cor,”_ the teen practically sobs, and Prompto thinks it’s time to take over.

“Uh . . . Mr. Cor?”

“And who is _that?”_

“P-Prompto Argentum,” he squeaks out.

“Argentum?” Cor—gods why does that name sound so _familiar_ —barks. “You mean, the kid who’s been missing since _yesterday afternoon?”_

Prompto blinks. “I . . . what?”

He knows he can get intense and, like, block out his surroundings when he takes photos, but he didn’t think he was so bad he’d go missing? Was this because he couldn’t contact Nyx?

Noctis stares at him, and it’s slightly judgmental. Prompto doesn’t even care because he’d take judgmental over ‘dead’ any day.

“But, uh, yes that’s me,” Prompto says. He does his best not to laugh, because then it’s gonna get hysterical, and Noctis doesn’t need hysterical at this moment. Hell, _Prompto_ doesn’t need hysterical right now. “Okay, so, um, yeah, I found Prince Noctis and . . . we, like, need medical attention?”

“Tell me where you are.”

“That’s . . . a good question,” says Prompto.

“What.”

“Yeah, all I see, um, are trees?”

_“What.”_

Prompto squeaks, again. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, _no_ , it’s not your fault—look, describe your surroundings for me.”

When Prompto finishes, Cor instructs them to stay at the haven. “We’ll come get the both of you in the morning, alright?”

“Okay,” Prompto says because, really, what else could he say?

Then, Cor hangs up the phone, though not with the additional instructions to answer this phone when it rings. Quiet descends on the haven, but it isn’t uncomfortable or awkward. Prompto eyes Noctis, gauging his emotional state at what’s going on, but he’s not paying attention to Prompto, or to the phone, or to T—

Tiny’s standing in the typical offensive stance of a canine—hackles raised, mouth curled into a silent snarl, standing on her haunches.

The cold sinks into Prompto’s bones. It’s not because of the weather.

There, only a few spaces away, are the shadowy outline of three people. Taller, more muscled, and clearly experienced in some way of combat. Prompto swallows around a dry throat, and shuffles closer to Noctis. Noctis remains fixed on the three strangers, and his expression has gone blank and cold. But Prompto’s close enough to see the barest hints of downright terror in his eyes.

Without thinking, Prompto reaches for the smallest pocket of his bag.

No one outside of Insomnia really thought twice about selling a weapon to someone who was very obviously underage. As long as they knew how to use it, they could buy it. With how rough and dangerous the regions got with their mostly aggressive and volatile wildlife, sometimes the weapon really was if they would live or die.

So.

Prompto bought a gun—a small one, easy in his hands and light enough for him to lug around without feeling like he was carrying too much stuff—and if it meant Noctis would live to see the dawn, would live to see his father again, then Prompto _was going to use it_.

(after all, what is the life of a lonely teen compared to the crown prince of an entire country?

nothing, that’s what.)

In Insomnia, kids could be taken to the fire range as young as eleven as long as they passed the height and weight check and, of course, had a parent or guardian accompany them at all times. It was a law passed during a time when tensions between Niflheim and Lucis were crucially tense and could’ve erupted into a brutal war at any second. When international relations eased—due to the old Emperor passing, and a new one taking the throne—the gun law hadn’t really been changed or updated. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t really important. One of the few things Prompto’s father did for him once he hit those milestones was take him to the gun range until the handling and care of a gun became a second instinct.

Tiny snarls, and one of the strangers raises their hands.

In the dimming sun, Prompto can make out the barest of features, but they’re wearing half-masks and he can’t really make everything out except for the slope of their nose, foreheads, and eyes.

“Easy, girl, we’re not here for you,” one of them says to Tiny. Noctis shivers, but it’s not because of the cold.

Prompto swallows again. He exhales, quietly, and then says, “Can I help you?”

They move, and Prompto doesn’t hesitate. Two of them go down, but the third lunges forward with a speed Prompto isn’t used to, and honestly, the only thing he _can_ do is throw himself over Noctis and pray that—

There’s a wet, choking noise. Prompto turns, almost fearfully, to see Tiny’s teeth clamped around the mans’ neck before she flings him to the edge of the dense forestry surrounding them. The man hits the ground with a thump that makes Prompto wince and turn away.

He exhales, and does his best to not think about the fact that—that he’d killed two people and watched another die, that he was the one who discovered Noctis after four years of captivity, and it was just a matter of sheer dumb luck, and—

Noctis’s fingers curl around his wrist. Prompto jolts a little at the touch but finds himself calming down.  Right. There were more important things to do than freak out over what’s happening. “Okay,” Noctis says.

Prompto blinks. “Am I okay?”

Noctis shakes his head. “Okay.”

It clicks after a moment of thought. “Oh! Are you saying ‘it’s okay’?”

Noctis nods.

“Yeah . . . yeah, it’s going to be okay.” Prompto, after a moment of hesitation, gently squeezes Noctis’s hands, and gets rewarded by a small, barely there, quirk of his lips. Prompto takes it as a sign of improvement. “I . . . I guess, um, we should try and get some sleep.”

Noctis huffs a little, but doesn’t argue. He also doesn’t protest when Prompto helps him into the sleeping bag, but does frown when Prompto, after tending to the fire, makes a makeshift pillow out of his bag.

“It’s okay,” Prompto says after a yawn nearly breaks his jaw. “’M used to it.”

Noctis’s frown deepens.

Prompto’s unrelenting in his decision, though, and soon they both fall into an uneasy sleep. Prompto jolts in and out of sleep, bothered by the slightest of noises, but he’s comforted by Pryna’s presence. Noctis’s breathing still sounds uneven, and wet, and Prompto’s a little terrified at what that means. As he drifts into a blank dreamland, he prays that they both make it through the night.


	2. hammerhead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Final Fantasy XV. All rights reserved to its developers: Square Enix. All that is mine is the plot of this story in particular and any original characters introduced. No copyright infringement intended. No money is being made from this work. This is purely for entertainment purposes.
> 
> Sorry for any spelling/grammar errors.
> 
> I’m alive! LOL I’m sorry for taking so long to post this, and leaving y’all on a cliff hanger :’) but it’s also my senior year of college and I’m in the midst of applying for grad school (+ I’m very active on campus and in my job) so it’s been hectic.
> 
> Let’s not talk about my honors thesis either lol. 
> 
> But I hope you enjoy!!

_ He wakes, numb, in a moving car. At first, he panics—silently, of course, because making noise meant getting harmed (unless they wanted him to make noise)—but then, he realizes that the numbness is . . . different. There is no noise. No incessant buzz in the back of his mind. It’s the same sort of quiet he feels when Prompto is near.  _

_ Soft voices drift in the air as the car rumbles beneath him. “Dunno what sort of injuries his Highness has,” says someone to his left. “But it seems Argentum patched him up the best he could.” _

_ “What a day,” says another, a heavy sigh, before they laugh. He will call this one Sigh. “Who would’ve thought a fourteen-year-old photographer . . . found what we’ve been trying to find for the past four years.” _

_ “All of Lucis has Argentum to thank.” He knows this voice. Knows this man. It’s almost enough to make him jolt awake, but he doesn’t. If he wakes, then the conversation will cease, and he will not know anything at all. “No doubt the King will move mountains for him, after this.”  _

_ Sigh snorts. “I’d be surprised if he didn’t.” _

_ He opens one of his eyes a little—the car is nice, he supposes. Far nicer than the ones he’s been forced into before; plush leather seats with seat warmers, and the air conditioning is on a cool temperature. From where his head is, he can’t see outside. But that’s fine. It’s quiet. It’s calm. _

_ Prompto’s beside him, curled tight and small in sleep. Somehow, Prompto blocks out the noise, but doesn’t seem to be aware of it. That’s fine with him. He sees no need to alarm the other.  _

_ He cannot remember when it was this quiet.  _

_ “How much longer until we reach the Crown City?” asks the one to his left. He vaguely recognizes her voice—was her name Crowe?  _

_ “Hmm . . . within a few more hours,” Cor replies. He almost starts crying—out of relief, out of hope, out of fear, he doesn’t know and he’s not sure he wants to right now—but, like always, he swallows the urge. He waits. He listens. “Since we had to make that detour, we’re set back two hours—but we should make it to Hammerhead, at least, by sundown.” _

_ “Will we rest there for the night?” Sigh asks, but it sounds like the man already knows the answer. _

_ “Of course,” Cor says. He feels eyes upon him. “I don’t want to risk anything with either the prince or Argentum.”  _

_ Sigh hums, and then repeats: “What a day.”  _

_ Prompto snores; it’s a quiet sound. If he didn’t know better, he’d say they were soft huffs of breath. His eyes close to the hum of the car. He’s still in pain—that will never change, really—but it doesn’t hurt to breathe anymore. It doesn’t hurt to think. He’s warm. Safe.  _

_ It’s so quiet. _

 

*

 

Noctis disappeared when he was eleven. He would be fifteen now, but it’s no secret that the Kingsglaive and Crownsguard are looking for a body instead of a breathing, living teenager. He attended the same field trip that Prompto did, and countless others that were in their class, and they had a buddy system. Security had been maxed out to a degree Prompto had never seen before.

And yet.

Noctis slipped away; a wisp. 

There one minute and gone the next. 

Lucis never stopped reeling from the aftermath, from the sprawling echo of grief left behind in his prince-shaped absence. Prompto would see it in the way everyone ignored the empty desk in the classroom, near the window, marked for the Noctis when he’d attend high school. He saw it in the way those of age and older signed up for the Crownsguard and Kingsglaive in droves, out of hope and desperation to aid the search. 

If not to find him alive, then to put his body to rest. 

He saw it in how aged and weary the King looked during public appearances; his black fatigues accented in white—the traditional garb of royalty in mourning. He saw it in how the entire city—the entire  _ country _ , if he were honest—would shut down on the Noctis’ birthday. An occasion for celebration had turned into a time of mourning. 

There were discussions of training the youngest Amicitia—a girl named Iris—to become the next heiress of Lucis, but even those questions, while understandably valid given King Regis only had Noctis, bled like an open, infected wound. No one wanted to think of a world where Noctis would not one day ascend to the throne. 

But he will. 

Because Prompto found him. 

(Prompto, who cried over baby Chocobos almost every single day. 

_ Prompto _ , instead of a seasoned Kingsglaive or Crownsguard.) 

A sudden jolt pulls him out of his slumber, and he flinches awake. His heartbeat thuds, almost painfully, in his chest, and panic spirals up his spine at the thought of  _ what’s happening, did we get kidnapped—? _

“At ease, Mr. Argentum,” someone—Cor, he vaguely remembers—says. “You and His Highness are safe.” 

There’s a weight on Prompto’s wrist—a hand, curled tight. Noctis’ hand. Prompto breathes, far easier than moments before, and opens his eyes. They’re driving through the sprawling expanse of the Leiden desert, but Prompto doesn’t have the faintest idea where they are at all. 

He swallows around a dry throat before the adult next to him, an older woman, offers a water bottle. “Here you go,” she says, not unkind. “Are you hungry? We picked up some to-go sandwiches at the last gas station a while back.”

The thought of food makes the inside of Prompto’s stomach churn, but he manages to say, “I’m alright,” without his voice cracking, and that’s an improvement for Prompto, really.

Noctis hums lightly beside him. Prompto spares him a glance. He doesn’t look as horrible as he used to, but he doesn’t look  _ better  _ and, honestly, Prompto doesn’t know if that’s worse or not. The teen has a tight grip on Prompto’s wrist, unwilling to let the other go. Prompto has the uncanny feeling that his presence calms Noctis, makes him feel safe. 

It’s a very large pill to swallow. 

“How, um, far are we?” Prompto asks to the car at large, hesitantly. “From . . . from Insomnia?” 

“An hour,” comments Nyx. 

An hours’ not bad—but Prompto’s well aware that a lot of things can go wrong in an hour.  _ But let’s not jinx it _ , he thinks to himself. Anxiety curls in the back of his throat, texture similar to bile. The last thing anyone needs is for them to get intercepted by someone with nefarious intentions. 

They bypass a crag in the middle of the desert, a landmark everyone knows to be Longwythe Peak. Prompto would’ve taken pictures of the Peak if not for the skin blistering heat that Leide is known for. But he does know where they are now—at least twenty minutes away from Hammerhead. 

“Take any good pictures, kid?” 

It takes Prompto a moment to realize Nyx spoke to him. A flush curling up his cheekbones, he nods. “Yeah—um, most of it’s just . . . nature stuff.” 

“Hey, well, all that ‘nature stuff’ is what got you into first place,” Nyx reminds him and—yeah, honestly, Prompto’s still not sure he’s experiencing a fever dream. 

_ Can anxiety medication induce hallucinations?  _ Prompto has no idea. Seems like a good research topic for when he’s back inside Insomnia. 

“Are we, um, going to stop at Hammerhead?” Prompto asks the adults, though he stares in Nyx’s direction. 

He doesn’t know the other Glaive, the one who offered him the sandwich, and while Cor’s presence inexplicably makes Prompto feel safe, there’s something about the man that makes Prompto both curious and wary. 

_ Where have I seen that guy? _

Maybe he was a popular Glaive or a Crownsguard member? Prompto might’ve seen him around the Citadel during the competition—all competitors had to undergo background check after background check, and interviews—Astrals, the  _ interviews _ , Prompto nearly bawled in one of them—and there was a reception of sorts before the top five photographers were announced. Prompto nearly drained his savings purchasing a good suit and tie. There was no way he’d attend a Citadel-funded function in his standard “street punk” attire. 

“For the night,” Cor answers as he flicks on the turning signal. Prompto thinks, in a bit of a daze, that they’ve been traveling in a circle for the past couple of minutes. “When dawn breaks, we’ll make our way into the city proper.” 

“Won’t it be better to head to Insomnia now?” Prompto questions and then pales. His anxiety is no longer bile in the back of his throat, but a viper wrapped tight around his heart, fangs ready to sink into the soft tissue. “Um, sorry, I didn’t—.”

“It’s alright. Your concerns are understandable,” Cor interrupts him, not unkindly. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t imply with his tone that Prompto’s being an obtuse _ idiot and children who know nothing should keep their mouths shut and—  _ “I would rather not risk either of your lives after dusk. While we are equipped with daemon-repelling headlights, we’d rather not take chances.” 

Prompto nods, appeased, and settles back into his seat. He hadn’t even known he leaned forward. As they approach the rest area known as Hammerhead, one of the major cities—technically, they’re very large towns—in the outer regions of Lucis, Prompto becomes aware that Noctis has latched onto his side with a vice grip and unrelenting expression.

It’s clear that he refuses to be separated from Prompto.

That’s another thing to swallow: the prince, the  _ missing  _ prince, has attached himself to Prompto with the enthusiasm of saran wrap. 

Cor pulls into the Hammerhead garage, but doesn’t get out of the car nor turn it off. Prompto’s kind of lost, but he stays quiet. It’s probably one of those royal things that commoners don’t need to know much about. 

The other Glaive, however, does get out of the car (Astrals, what is her name?) and makes her way toward an older man, whose standing near the garage opening, squinting at their car. The sight makes Prompto tense a little and press closer against Noctis’ side. 

Noctis doesn’t complain about that at all.

(he’s kind of like a cat—a traumatized, injured, silent cat, but a cat nonetheless. Prompto really needs to stop having these revelations when he isn’t alone, though, because he doesn’t think his heart can take much more of this.)

Noctis does, however, narrow his eyes and say, “Safe?” 

From the rearview mirror, Prompto can see that Cor and Nyx exchange a short glance before Cor says, “Yes, your Highness—we’re safe, but Crowe is informing Cid that we will be utilizing the caravan.” 

Prompto doesn’t say it, but he does share a glance with Noctis. Ignoring the slight warmth at sharing  _ glances  _ with the prince, he thinks,  _ is that wise?  _

Cor sees their look and eases their fears. 

“Cid is . . . a family friend,” Cor replies. There’s a heavy weight in his tone; something Prompto doesn’t want to touch with a twenty-foot pole. The regrets of old men are better left buried, really, for all parties involved. “He’s trusted.” 

Prompto hopes so. 

Once Crowe manages their sleeping situation, they’ve been given the all-clear to get out of the car. 

“Well I’ll be,” the man—Cid, apparently—croaks out; shadows over his eyes as he drunk Noctis’ appearance. Even wearing a large sunhat, it wasn’t enough to hide either his features nor the injuries to those who knew the distinctive features of a Lucis Caelum—or, rather, a close friend of the family. “I’ll  _ be _ .” 

Noctis almost digs his fingertips into the small of Prompto’s wrist. 

“You’re a right mix of Reggie and Aulea at this age,” says Cid. His mouth opens and closes—like he’s trying to speak, but can’t find the right words to say. After a few more moments, his sigh shakes his shoulders. “Damn.  _ Damn _ .”

Noctis remains silent, but Prompto notices that he isn’t quite so tense. 

His expression, though, remains closed off and shuttered. His emotions a bleeding, festering wound that he hides beneath a bandage.

(Prompto can relate.)

* * *

Prompto wakes, half a scream stuck in his throat, half a sob in-between his teeth, to Noctis curled around him; warmth pressed against his side. The prince is gently carding his fingers through Prompto’s hair, murmuring incomprehensible words. Preoccupied with his task, he doesn’t even notice that Prompto’s awake. 

At least, that’s what Prompto assumes.

Of course, Noctis proves him wrong when he says, quietly to not disturb the others in the caravan, “Okay?” 

Somehow, Prompto understands the depth of the question.  _ Are you okay now? _ “Yeah,” he says, voice rough and scratchy; soft against the imprint of Noctis’ collarbone. “Are you?” 

Noctis responds with a hum. Prompto kind of wants to hit himself—of course he isn’t okay. He was literally on the run from being kidnapped  _ two fucking days ago, Prompto, hello _ —. Noctis pokes Prompto’s cheek, the edges of his lips pulled into a frown. Prompto gets the vibe that he’s getting silently scolded for negative thoughts and blinks.

“S-Sorry.” 

Noctis returns to playing with Prompto’s hair. Prompto does his best not to, you know, flip his shit over the crown prince playing with his hair. From the ruffled movements around them, Prompto becomes aware that the adults are awake—or most of them, he adds, as a soft snore ripples through the air. It seems like they’re getting ready to move out of Hammerhead and into the city proper. 

Nervous bundle in knots in the pit of Prompto’s stomach. Would his parents be home? Would they know of the contest? Of his disappearance? Of who he’s brought back? 

_ Would they even care?  _ A small part of him whispers (okay, let’s be honest, a big part of him), but Prompto shoves that deep into his mind. It’s easier that way. 

It’s really not, but Prompto feels much, much better when he thinks it does. 

 “Prompto?” 

He blinks over at Cor, who motions toward the bathroom. “I’d go use that if I were you—we’ll be setting out in the hour.” 

His trip to the bathroom is quick, and when he returns from the squished room (if it can even be called that, it’s that small), Noctis has been reduced to a trembling, little ball in the middle of the bed.

Cold prickles through Prompto’s veins. The adults are obviously concerned and unaware of what set Noctis off—but the way they flutter over him in worry, eyebrows pinched and furrowed, lips pressed into frowns, only seem to make Noctis more hysterical.

If one could even be  _ called  _ hysterical if they weren’t even speaking.

Cor pulls Nyx back when the Glaive reaches for Noctis’ shoulder. “We’re not helping,” says Cor, and then his gaze settles on Prompto, whose been inching forward since he’s noticed Noctis’, uh, problem. “Argentum, maybe you—?”

Noctis interrupts, a whisper that holds the weight of the world: “Prompto?”

And. Well. 

That solidifies Prompto’s decision. 

He sits on the edge of the bed, hesitant to be so close in case Noctis doesn’t want to be touched, and says, “Hey, uh, buddy,” —Prompto is so  _ awkward _ ; Shiva take the wheel, he’s going to jump out the caravan— “I’m - I’m right here—.”

Noctis moves, quicker than any would expect considering he’s, like, falling at the seams, and clamps Prompto’s wrist in a surprisingly firm grip for someone who’s so—well, injured.

Quiet stretches in the caravan as they all watch Noctis’ trembles cease slowly until there’s a ripple every few minutes rather than every second. 

_ Uh what, _ Prompto thinks, staring (gawking, let’s be honest) at the way Noctis’ fingers wrap around the small of his wrist. 

Did his presence, his touch, ease Noctis’ anxiety? Did Noctis feel safe when Prompto was around?

Prompto swallowed around a dry throat. What a weight on his shoulders?

Stepping back inside Insomnia after all that’s happened, after all that Prompto has seen and done, feels like he’s truly experiencing a drug-induced hallucination. It’s just weird. Odd. Prompto’s spent the past few days trekking through dense forestry before he discovered a boy who’s been missing for almost six years. 

The chaos of Insomnia’s morning traffic compared to the serene, though undeniably  _ off _ , atmosphere of Duscae gives Prompto whiplash.  

Prompto doesn’t even ask if they’ll drop him off at his house. He knows he’s Citadel-bound. 

I’m going to throw up, Prompto thinks to himself. 

As if sensing the trail of thought, Noctis presses as close as the seatbelt allows. Although he’d expressed a quiet distaste for the device when he climbed into the car, Cor had been unmovable and wouldn’t leave Hammerhead unless Noctis had his seatbelt on. 

“You’re not going to go flying through the windshield,” he had said. There was an unspoken, implied  _ I’m not bringing back a body _ . 

Prompto kind of thinks that there’s something more — dark in Noctis’ aversion to being strapped down. 

He really doesn’t want to think too much on it, though. Perhaps, when he’s alone and falling asleep. 

(Prompto’s mind is going to have a fucking _ field day _ when he’s back in the sanctuary of his room.

He’s not looking forward to it.) 

The Citadel looms in the middle of Insomnia; a protected jewel rising into view. Prompto’s palms sweat as he eyes the patrolling Crownsguard when Cor slips through the gates. 

They enter a hidden pathway that opens up into a parking garage (are they  _ under the city? _ ), but Cor maneuvers them four levels down. 

At Prompto’s puzzled, though undeniably awed (because how big  _ even is the place what the hell _ ), look, Crowe says, “the fourth level is reserved for members of the royal family.” 

“Oh.”

Prompto doesn’t want to think about the fact that  _ he’s _ , you know, being privy to a place so many people would kill to have access to.

(Prompto doesn’t want to think about a lot of things, lately.)

Cor and the Glaives get out of the car first. Prompto thinks it has something to do with security and shielding Noctis (and, technically, Prompto as well, but he’s just. Not gonna think about that). 

The Citadel is cold—cold enough that Prompto wants a jacket—but in the sense that there’s a lack of life, of emotion, in its halls. Prompto got that feeling when he attended the reception. There was just something missing. 

A gaping maw that couldn’t be sealed. 

They get recognized—or, rather, Noctis gets recognized. It’s only been five years, but there’s no mistaking who Noctis is once most of the grime and dirt and dried blood has been removed from a clean shower. 

A wave of whispers follow them. Prompto tries not to look how he feels: like he’s about to vomit all over the Citadel’s shining floors.

He’s not sure it’s working. 

Someone—a young woman around college-age, she looks like a retainer to Prompto, but he doesn’t really know what the hell a retainer is supposed to look like, but she has a mug of coffee and a clipboard in her hands—pauses mid-word and stares as they bypass the small group.

_ “Is that—?” _

_ “Holy  _ Shiva— _?” _

_ “I think that’s—?” _

Noctis tightens his grip on Prompto’s arm and hunches more into himself. As they walk deeper into the Citadel, shadows lurk in his blue eyes. 

Prompto wonders if they’ll ever go away.

Cor leads them inside a sitting room. Dressed in plush, silver colored furniture, Prompto doesn’t want to consider sitting in fear of staining something. He’s surrounded by wealth. 

Within a minute, a man dressed in an immaculate uniform enters with a wheeling tray of small cookies and triangular-cut sandwiches, and a steaming pot of what Prompto thinks it’s tea.

He hopes it’s chamomile. 

He could do with some calming herbs right now. 

He’s a little confused, though, because why weren’t they escorted to the hospital wing, but he doesn’t ask. The air is too tense, too quiet, for him to breach it with his curiosity.

“You will be seen to by a private doctor,” Cor explains quietly before he motions to the couch. “Take a seat and rest.”

Prompto really doesn’t want to sit but, well, he’s never been one to ignore a command from an adult.

He drifts toward the couches. The absence of Noctis’ warmth makes him feel oddly bereft. But he’s been given instructions, and it’s all but carved into his bones to obey. 

(The consequences just took so much  _ energy  _ and—

Anyway.)

Nyx presses his fingers against his earpiece. “His Majesty is on his way with the doctor.” 

They don’t wait long before King Regis arrives. Prompto hears the heavy thuds of the mans’ boots as he rounds a corner.  

If this were a movie, the doors would burst open in a flourish. The King would rush inside, followed by a crowd, desperate and grieving to see the son he thought he’d have to bury young. That doesn’t happen, of course—this isn’t a soap opera. Although the Citadel gossip might be something else, this was reality.

And reality stated that King Regis strolled inside the room in slow, careful movements. He’s still fast, of course, who wouldn’t be? And the emotions—Astrals, Prompto can’t even comprehend majority of them. They swirl together like a dark miasma of grief and sorrow and hope as King Regis stares at Noctis and walks toward him, slow as if approaching an injured, terrified animal.

Prompto’s on the other side of the room, a mangled mess of nerves and anxiety that he’s not sure he’s even wholly human right now, even though his fingers twitch with the urge to be near Noctis—he doesn’t know why. It’s not like Noctis isn’t safe. It’s not like they are on that haven, and there’s a gun in his hands, and Tiny’s teeth are clamped tight, tight around another mans’ throat, and there’s so much,  _ so much blood _ —

Noctis clamps his hands around his ears, and screams, and screams, and screams. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop a comment/kudos if you enjoyed it :D


	3. the citadel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy! 
> 
> i’m not a doctor and honestly ffxv is full of fake science anyway LOL

_She visits when he sleeps._

_He doesn’t recognize his surroundings—but, well, he never does, most days. His dreams are a respite from his days, drenched in white and a soothing calm that blocks out the noise. Most nights, it works. But sometimes, it doesn’t. He doesn’t like those nights._

_(those doctors do, though. They can’t seem to get enough of them.)_

_She is dressed in long, draping robes; her hair falling down her shoulders. Her eyes and lips are closed, but she smiles, nonetheless; a kind yet distant smile. Some of the other doctors smiled at him like that—right before they split him into pieces, stitched him back together, and wondered why he screamed and cried._

_(A few of them, though._

_They_ liked _that.)_

_He swallows. Tenses._

_“Hello, King of Stone,” she greets._

_He blinks at the sound of her voice: warm and honeyed. The kiss of the sun in the middle of winter. She kneels beside him but takes care to fold her hands on her lap. Always within his sight. It makes him loosen a knot in his chest._

_She feels like safety. Like refuge._

_He can’t hear a thing from her. He likes that. The only one who’s that quiet is Prompto. Cor, too, but not to their extent. Some things slip through, much to his dismay._

_“I see You have sought sanctuary,” she continues smoothly. Although her eyes do not open, he feels pinned beneath her gaze. But he does not feel unsafe. “A wise choice . . . choosing Our Star.”_

_He blinks but doesn’t voice his confusion. Questions weren’t allowed. Neither were emotions—his own, at least. He must be a blank state. Easy to erase, easy to reconfigure._

_“You may Call me Gentiana,” she says, and a slight breeze curls around his shoulders. He doesn’t shiver. He doesn’t breathe. “Be at ease, King of Stone. I mean You no harm.”_

_They always say that, he thinks, distant. He stays quiet. He stays still. Like Gentiana, he does not show a sign of life. He is a shadow chained in the constrains of human skin. Sometimes, he doesn’t feel much like a human anymore._

_“Your journey has yet to cease,” Gentiana continues quietly, nonplussed by his silence. He likes that. She tilts her head. He thinks she’s considering him. “But do not let fear cloud Your heart.”_

_His breath scatters in the air._

_Gentiana opens her eyes._

_“Oh my,” she says, after a pause. It feels like a year instead of a few seconds. “This wasn’t supposed to be.”_

_He doesn’t care. He cares for little, now. They have sucked out his emotions and he is a pale canvas, ready for someone else to paint over white pages._

_He opens his mouth and_

 

*

 

Prompto will never forget the sound of Noctis’ scream. It ripples through the quiet of the night. It floats in the air like the acrid stench of blood. It rises to the ceiling and nestles there, snug in a darkened corner.

“Noctis!” the King says, placatingly, over Noctis. The boy doesn’t seem to hear, his eyes vacant as they droop to the floor, hands still clamped over his ears. “Noctis, it’s _alright! You’re safe!”_

Prompto’s heart stutters in his throat as he watches the scene before him. He thinks he knows (not really, but, hey, a guess is as good as a fact right now) how to calm Noctis down. Yelling at him isn’t going to work. Yelling at him when you’re nearly twice his size _definitely_ isn’t going to work.

A Glaive Prompto doesn’t know keeps a steady hand on Prompto’s elbow. Probably trying to keep him safe. Or keep him from interfering. Prompto doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. He just knows that Noctis is screaming, and no one is helping.

(his touch helps calm noctis. helps ground him back to reality.)

They sedate Noctis. Well. They _try_ to.

It’s the wrong choice.

(Even Prompto, for all that his ears were ringing deafeningly, could’ve told them _that_. No one knows where Noctis was—no one knows how he was treated. Coming at him with a needle meant to strip him of his bodily autonomy, uh, wasn’t going to end well.)

For someone whose been weakened and basically half-dead, he’s been recharged at the sight of the anesthesia (well, Prompto thinks it’s anesthesia, but, really, he hasn’t a clue). Noctis turns into something wild, something frantic and desperate; a seething mockery of the boy the Citadel once knew. Wind from Noctis’ magic goes haywire, whipping around the room; tipping over vases and books, and pushing people back and away from Noctis.

Glaives and the King attempt to stop Noctis’ magic with their own spells, and it’s a cacophony of noise and the shattering screech of spells. It’s not working. For every spell they cast, Noctis’ wind gets faster. Gets _sharper_. It shatters the spells, crumbles them, before they can get within Noctis’ reach.

But – somehow – the whipping, turbulent air doesn’t harm Prompto. The flying objects don’t go near him. He exists in the middle of the storm, untouched and whole. He moves forward, despite the reaching hands and voices that tell him to _stay here, stay here you’ll get_ hurt.

Prompto’s been hurt before. He can take whatever Noctis throws at him.

When he reaches Noctis, still untouched, still unbothered, the room is bathed in quiet save for the howl of Noctis’ magic. The adults (the _King)_ are watching, breath curled in their lungs, as Prompto gently (always gently; his touch is never meant to harm) curls a hand around Noctis’ wrist.

The effect is immediate.

The wind shudders out of existence. The books and shards of glass picked up by said wind crash to the floor, harmless (sort of) now that magic hasn’t used them as a weapon. There’s a lighter breeze, now; a soft touch that belongs in early sunrises in spring. Noctis’ shuddering, gasping breaths echo around the room as he grabs a hold of Prompto’s sleeve.

“It’s okay,” Prompto says, his voice soft yet it floats around the room. “They’re not going to hurt you. You’re safe here—.”

But Noctis is shaking his head, saying, “Not safe. Not safe. Not safe,” repeatedly, fingers gripping into Prompto’s skin as he presses closer, curls around him as best as he physically can. The only thing Prompto can do, really, is wrap his arms around Noctis, rubbing his arm and whispering, “You are safe. You are safe. You are safe,” to counteract his claims.

(But. Really. Prompto doesn’t blame him for not feeling safe. He hasn’t been inside the Citadel in years. It’s a strange place to him now. A strange place and people were about to sedate him.)

Noctis’ shaking hasn’t subsided, but he seems calmer. Less – what’s a nice way to say it – _feral_. Prompto spares a glance toward the adults, his gaze wide-eyed and half-panicked, because, really, he doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do. He didn’t sign up for this. He didn’t _train_ for this.

Soothing people who’ve gone through a traumatic ordeal is not Prompto’s job description. His only job description is to go to school and complain about his math homework to parents who are rarely in the city.

One of the doctors seems to take a chance at the stilted calm. He steps forward patiently. “Your Highness, we . . .,”

Before the man can step further, wind picks up again. It swirls around them, but it isn’t dangerous—well. Not dangerous to _Prompto_. Noctis’ breath is ragged against Prompto’s neck, but he has enough energy to glare at the crowd of adults to say, waspishly, _“Don’t.”_

Don’t come closer.

Don’t come near.

(don’t touch me.)

“No one is going to hurt you, Noctis,” Cor says as he steps forward; palms out to show a lack of syringes, a lack of weapons. “You’re safe here. I know this is scary, but we just want to heal your injuries. We need to make sure nothing is wrong.”

Noctis stares at Cor with an unwavering gaze. He hadn’t acted like this in the car, but, then again, Prompto had been attached to him for majority of the drive, save the very hasty bathroom trips, and there were less people surrounding him.

And, you know, no one tried to stick him with needles, either.

Noctis probably felt safe within that little cluster of people. And now that safety has ebbed.  

Another medic bites their lip, wringing their wrists, as they cast glances at Prompto. “But what about, ah, Mr. Argentum? We – it’ll be difficult to heal the both of them like that, so—.”

Noctis hackles raise immediately at the implied suggestion of splitting them up. “He stays,” Noctis rasps out, teeth pulled back into a rather intimidating snarl. But his grip on Prompto’s wrist stays soft, stays gentle. “He _stays_.”

Prompto stays.

 

* * *

Here is a fact about Prompto Argentum: His family gave him a nickname when he was little. They do not call him _honey_ or _sweetheart_ or _prom_.

They call him _Empty._ If it’s a bad day, they call him _Null_.

He does not know what they mean by that. He’s not sure if he wants to.

 

* * *

They end up in a makeshift hospital room. At least, Prompto thinks it’s supposed to be a hospital room. The machines and technology are all there, but the room resembles an actual bedroom rather than a hospital. He can’t tell if this is a rich people thing or if they’re getting special treatment.

“Prompto?”

“Y-Yes?” Prompto licks his lips; they’re cracked and almost splitting. He lost his Chapstick somewhere near the Disc. It’s one with the wild now.

“Can you let Noctis know that we . . . we need to check him for injuries,” Cor explains, still quiet, still patient, even though it’s clear he’s way out of his comfort zone. At what he says, Noctis, still wrapped around Prompto even on the bed, tenses.

Prompto, automatically, rubs small circles into Noctis’ wrist to calm him. “It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs to Noctis. “We’re safe here. No one means us harm.”

Noctis is still tense, but he relents his grip enough that Prompto can safely detach himself from Noctis with little consequences. Doctors swirl around them, but Prompto weathers through the checkup quietly. Even though he wants to flinch when their cold devices touch his skin, he doesn’t. The last thing he wants is for Noctis, who’s already gone through so much, to feel like there’s something _wrong_.

Since separating Noctis from Prompto isn’t a plan of action at all, a Glaive-turned-doctor casts diagnostic spells over them. Prompto has less injuries, which makes sense, since he wasn’t the one _kidnapped_ for nearly half his life, and none of them are life-threatening.

Noctis, however, uh, is another story.

Disregarding the obvious cuts and bruises that Prompto had partially healed with his two low-tier potions, as well as the obvious systematic withholding of food and nutrients his captors had put him through, Noctis had a healing punctured lung, three of his ribs were broken, his left wrist was sprained, and there were a massive amount of surgical scars on his skin.

Since Noctis refused to leave Prompto’s side, the doctors heal him then and there. “You’re going to be quite sore for a few weeks,” one of them says once the hi-potion absorbs into Noctis’ ribcage. “And we’ll be keeping you here for a few days just to keep an eye on your recovery—but, overall, aside from your . . . previous injuries, you’re in a clean bill of health!”

Noctis says nothing, but at least he hasn’t given any of them the death glower of doom. It shouldn’t have looked so impressive on someone who was halfway dead.  

“Prompto,” Cor says, drawing attention from the two. Noctis gives the man a suspicious glare. “We’ll be informing your parents of the situation as . . . we won’t be separating you two for a while.”

Prompto nods, but he thinks, privately, that they shouldn’t push their luck. He hasn’t heard from his parents in – honestly, Prompto’s lost track since his last phone call from them, a standard and bland update that rent for the year would be paid in full, and that he wouldn’t need to worry about utilities or food.

“So, uh, this might be a – a stupid, um, q-question,” Prompto starts—and, perhaps Noctis senses his rising anxiety, because the boy runs his thumb over the small of Prompto’s wrist in a soothing pattern—and continues in the face of supportive nods from the adults. “But – will I be . . . living here? In the – the Citadel?”

From what it’s looking like, it’s – unbearable for Noctis to be away from Prompto. No one knows why—in fact, only Noctis knows why (and even then, he might _not_ ). It’s clear that separation would be unhealthy and very, very damaging to Noctis’ recovery.

But Prompto isn’t a noble. He doesn’t have any sort of ties to the upper echelon of society, of those who walk inside the halls of the Citadel with shimmery clothes he would never be able to afford. He isn’t in the Crownsguard, isn’t in the Kingsglaive—hell, he isn’t even an _intern_ to one of the various departments housed in the Citadel.

But it’s not as if Noctis could camp out in his house. For one, it’s probably a major security risk. For another, Prompto’s pretty sure Noctis’ family—that is, the _royal fucking family_ —would have problems with their prince living, in their perspectives, in squalor with a commoner.

“You will.” Cor is the one who answers. “Given the – circumstances, you’ll be sharing the residential wing with His Highness for the time being.”

Prompto thinks his mouth drops to the floor. “But – but – but I don’t have the clearance?”

The edges of Cor’s mouth quirk into a barely-there smile. “You do now.”

“Isn’t – isn’t – I dunno, a law against that or something?” A headache burrows against Prompto’s forehead. “Uh. Won’t people have a problem? I mean, I’m – I’m just a citizen.”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Cor explains in a patient tone. Prompto kind of, sort of, wants to _scream_ that, uh, yeah, that _is_ something he should worry about, thanks— “Just focus on – adjusting and recovering, alright? We’ll send someone to collect your belongings and school items once you’re further settled.”

“Um.” Prompto swallows. “Okay.” What else could he do? What else could he _say?_ He looks at Noctis, who stares at him with an unreadable yet vulnerable expression, and smiles to hide the anxiety curling around his neck. “Guess we’re roommates, then.”

Noctis hums. Prompto thinks he’s amused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop a comment/kudos if you enjoyed it!

**Author's Note:**

> please drop a comment/kudos on your way out if you enjoyed it!


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